


The Adventure Of Woodman's Lea (1902)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [207]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Attempted Murder, Caring Sherlock Holmes, Destiel - Freeform, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, London, M/M, Murder, Period Typical Attitudes, Role-Playing Game, Social Justice, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 03:06:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819955
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: An unusual murder, as the list of potential suspects who were crossed by the victim was.... sizeable. And not forgetting the involvement of a Red Indian warrior - from Essex!





	The Adventure Of Woodman's Lea (1902)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aely](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aely/gifts).



I have often mentioned the continuing and relentless expansion of the Great Wen, but like all things, that advance had not been without the occasional check. When the Great Eastern Railway had been built to connect the town of Chingford to the railway network, the station had been placed some little way from the town centre, and anyone capable of looking at a map could see that the company hoped to encourage development in the area and to then cut across Epping Forest to the Epping branch line and bring in even more people to London. Those ambitions had been thwarted when Queen Victoria had visited the area in 1882 and declared the once royal forest open to all, which had slammed the brake on development in the area as the government now designated it somewhere that should be for the relaxation of Londoners, and so not to be built on.

It was the sequel some two decades later to these political machinations which led to a killing that was, in this instance, quite understandable. And to our encountering a Red Indian in - of all places - the county of Essex!

+~+~+

It had been a good few weeks since my unfortunate French adventure, although my memories of it were somewhat hazy. I had thought that Sherlock had taken my being kissed by an attractive young lady relatively well, but after the case, he had told me that he was trying to restrain his jealousy and anger at what had happened. I, in one of those far too frequent moments which certain parts of my anatomy would most definitely come to regret, had told him to hold nothing back.

No gentleman in his fifties should be subjected to two weeks of near-constant sex! And I would have to get a replacement for my new panties which Sherlock had kept ' as a trophy'. He had even somehow found a place to get what was left of the damn things mounted! Above our bed, of all places!

It was well that I had such a pleasant (if hazy) set of memories to comfort me, because at the moment I was feeling far from happy. I fully understood and to some extent supported those people who wished to preserve the green areas in and around our capital, which made it very different from other much more congested cities both here and abroad. Indeed, I had hitherto not thought that anything could make me think ill of such campaigners. But Madam ( _not_ Miss!) Sophia-Justina Warrier was, seemingly, determined to achieve just that. I could see from the growing line on his forehead that even Sherlock's usually infinite patience was fast running out.

This personage had arrived in a set of mechanic's overalls, of all things, and whilst someone like Miss Charlotta Bradbury could carry off something so daring, on Madam Warrier it just looked as if she was trying (and failing) to make a Statement. And her voice – it was the human equivalent of a nail against a blackboard! I looked longingly at the whisky decanter on the sideboard; perhaps I could hit her over the head with it..... 

No, that would be quite wrong. It was a nice decanter.

“Madam Warrier!” Sherlock said, in a far sharper tone than he normally used on our clients. “This is getting us nowhere. Now, I am a busy man, and so far you have been here twenty-six minutes,” - he pulled out his watch - “forty-one seconds, and counting, and have yet to actually say precisely what it is that you want.”

She tossed her head back, and looked at us disdainfully. I reminded myself that despite the safety-catch, the large window overlooking the street probably would open wide enough to push a body through it. I had always wondered.

“I wish you to stop the railway!" she said, in the sort of voice that stated quite clearly that she thought we were the idiots, not her. Maybe the decanter was not that nice after all.

“You wish us to stop the railway from doing what?” Sherlock asked. I could see the whites of his knuckles as he gripped his chair, and winced. That was not a good sign. I would be sending down for coffee shortly, I was sure. And quite probably using a second cushion for the next few days.

With any luck!

“From building the Lea Extension Line, of course”, she said. “Really, Men these days! You are all _totally_ useless!”

Sherlock looked at her and rose slowly to his feet. Even on our visitor's self-satisfied face, a look of anxiety began to appear.

“I am a gentleman”, Sherlock growled, “and because of that fact, I am going to refrain from bodily ejecting you from these premises. But I suggest, most strongly, that you take yourself somewhere else, preferably within the next sixty seconds, before I throw you out of the door!”

She paled.

“You would not dare!” she snapped, rising to her feet.

“Or the window!” Sherlock all but yelled. “Go! Away!”

It finally seemed to dawn on her that rudeness and bad manners had, for some inexplicable reason, failed to win her Sherlock's help. With a huff, she flounced from the room. He strode across and locked the door after her.

“In the name of all that is holy, how has someone not strangled that woman?” he asked. “She was rude, vulgar, opinionated, uninformative, arrogant....”

I was already at his side, pulling him gently into an embrace and holding him as he seethed. 

“You are upset”, I said calmingly. “Rightly so. She really was terrible.”

“I lost my temper, though”, he said ruefully, looking down at the floor and blushing. “I do not think that I have ever done that before.”

There was a pained silence. He looked up at me.

“Twice before”, I said. “Both times deserved, although neither was as bad as that harridan. How she got all the way here from Essex without someone dispatching her into the next world if only to get some peace and quiet, the Good Lord alone knows.”

I was to remember those fateful words quite soon.

+~+~+

The following morning, I woke feeling gloriously sated. To help take Sherlock's mind off our unpleasant guest, I had suggested some role-play, and in particular my wearing the Roman outfit which I loved (except, perhaps, for that awful occasion when I had nearly left the house with the slave collar still showing, had not a sniggering Mrs. Lindberg pointed it out to me). My friend was not there, but I assumed that he was probably off in search of his caffeine fix as per usual.

As if thinking of the scruffy little genius could cause him to appear, he re-entered the room that very moment, carrying the predictable coffee-cup (his third, from his fairly coherent look). And an unpredictable frown.

“What is wrong?” I asked. He looked at me strangely.

“There has been a murder overnight in Essex”, he said slowly. “A woman's body was found at a place called Woodman's Lea, in the Lea Valley.”

I immediately worried at his reaction, This was London, after all. There had to be something else. He looked at me and nodded.

“The dead woman has been identified as a Sophia-Justina Warrier, of the nearby town of Chingford”, he said. “But that is not the most remarkable thing about the whole affair. They are questioning a local man about the attack.”

“Well, that is good”, I said warily. “Does the paper name him?”

“No”, he said. “But they do say that he is, and I quote, a 'local Red Indian'.”

I stared at him in amazement.

+~+~+

I wondered if Sherlock would want to take an interest in this bizarre case, but to my surprise, the case came to us that very afternoon, in the shattered form of Inspector Baldur. His wife had just given birth to their seventh child, a boy called Forseti (little wonder the city kept expanding!), and he looked utterly exhausted. Sherlock asked him if he did not mind waiting whilst he sent a boy with an urgent telegram, which I thought was odd.

“I am worried about this Woodman's Lea murder”, our visitor said, failing to suppress a yawn. “I may be wrong, but I have a feeling that there may be a police element to it.”

“How so?” Sherlock asked. “We have only seen the newspaper reports of the matter, and one knows as to how unreliable they can be.”

“I read them”, the sergeant said. “They did not mention what is worrying me. You see, sirs, the body was found on a small island in the River Lea, in the middle of the wood. The river marks the border between the constabularies and the counties of Hertfordshire and Essex, and the body was found right across it.”

I did not see his point but, of course, Sherlock did.

“Ah”, he said. “You believe that this implies insider knowledge, as rivalry between the constabularies – and we know it is bad enough between the different 'patches' in just one of them – will impede the investigation.”

“I do”, the inspector yawned again, visibly slumping in his chair. “Sorry, sirs. I....”

He tried to sit up in his seat, but his body was apparently against him. Within moments the poor fellow was snoring gently.

“If he will keep adding to the city's population”, Sherlock smiled fondly. “I am sure that his dear wife at least is in a better state, being most sensibly still in hospital along with her newest bairn.”

He picked up his book and proceeded to read it. It was a little odd, sat there with a London inspector slumped in our famous fireside chair, but I quietly fetched my writings and set to work.

I had only managed about two pages when there was a soft knock at the door – not a bell, I noted – and Mrs. Lindberg appeared with a young man and a young woman. He was evidently a doctor of some sort from his bag, and she a nurse from her attire. Sherlock smiled at them in greeting, put down his book, and crossed to shake our tall friend awake. He looked around confusedly, then flushed bright red.

“Do not worry”, Sherlock said gently. “These people are Doctor Meredith and Nurse Penfold. They run a company called “First Month”.”

The inspector stared unfocussedly at him, still woozy from his unexpected nap.

“Their job is to help couples through the first month of a new baby being home by organizing everything for you”, Sherlock told him. “I took the liberty of arranging an extra month off for you, and they will be taking you home and looking after you all.”

The look of gratitude and happiness on our friend's face was almost too much to bear. He stumbled to his feet, and shook Sherlock's hand. 

“Thank you, sir”, he sniffed, clearly close to tears. “Just.... thank you!”

+~+~+

“I think that we should investigate this murder at Woodman's Lea”, Sherlock said, once the inspector and his new helpers had left. “I do not want our friend to have any worries on top of what he already has to cope with. His deputy Sergeant Mills has promised me that he will inform him as and when his current cases are wrapped up, but we shall solve this one for him as well.”

I thought to myself how lucky I was to have such a wonderful friend, who would do that for someone. Sherlock would have had to have called in several favours to get a whole month off for the new father. He smiled at me as he pulled on his coat.

“You can thank me tonight!” he promised.

And now I was going to be hard all the way to bloody Chingford! Not considerate at all, damn him!

+~+~+

As well as helping us with his superior, Sergeant Mills had also advised us to visit Constable Lake in Chingford, as he would be more receptive to our involvement that his Hertfordshire counterpart in Brimsdown. Philip Lake was yet another depressingly young fellow, blond, athletic and.... young.

“It's my belief”, he told us, “that this has something to do with those plans for reservoirs in the area.”

“The newspapers did not mention those”, Sherlock said. The policeman scratched his short thatch.

“Officially the plans have been what they call 'suspended', sir”, he said. “But with London growing the way it is, they are going to need water for all those people from somewhere, and I suppose here is as likely as anywhere. You see, if they build reservoirs on the low ground, then that would almost cut us off completely. The only way across to Hertfordshire would be through Woodman's Lea, which is on a ridge that's cut in two by the river.”

“So if the Great Eastern Railway wishes to build on to their line in Hertfordshire, it has to be through the greenwood”, Sherlock mused. “What do you know about the victim, Madam Warrier?”

Judging from the pained expression on the young man's face, he had indeed met the harridan, and his next words confirmed that.

“My dear mother would clip my ear if she caught me speaking ill of the dead, sirs”, he said, looking around the room presumably in case said parent should suddenly materialize from somewhere or other. “But in the name of all that was holy, I do not understand how she was not done in years ago! When it comes to drawing up a list of suspects, it will pretty much be everyone who had ever met her!”

I suppressed a smile.

“Tell us about your 'Red Indian'”, Sherlock said.

“You mean Mr. Arthur Smith”, he grinned. “He was the opposite. Lived in a wigwam thingy on the corner of Lord Holybourne's estate, right where it meets the corner of Woodman's Lea. He acts pretty much as custodian of the place, communing with his spirits and what-not in there.”

“Does Lord Holybourne not mind?” I wondered. The policeman shook his head.

“Not our Holy Harry”, he grinned. “I suppose that would be your next question, sirs, namely what in God's name is a Red Indian doing in this neck of the woods?”

“We had wondered”, Sherlock smiled.

“Truth is, no-one is quite sure”, the policeman said. “But I checked the records one time, and he only seems to have show up around some fifteen or so years ago.”

“Ah”, Sherlock said knowingly.

I glared at him. 

“Ah?” I said testily. He smirked, but elaborated.

“That was 'Eighty-Seven, the year of the Golden Jubilee”, he reminded me. “One of the many events to mark it was 'Buffalo' Bill Cody's Wild West Show coming to London.”

He turned back to the policeman, who nodded.

“You're right, sir”, he said. “Local gossip is was that one of the Red Indian women in the show stole away to Lord Harry's estate, and took her son with her. Mr. Smith, he's twenty-five, so he would have been about ten back then. She disappeared – no record of her anywhere.”

Sherlock frowned at that for some reason.

“Does your Lord Harry have an heir?” he asked.

“No children of his own, sir, but he does have a relative he adopted as his heir”, the policeman said. “I'm not quite sure, but I think they're second cousins or such; fellow's about thirty, twenty years younger than His Lordship. His name's Mr. Dent, George Dent. He's not married; a bit of a recluse, but he's all right.”

Sherlock seemed to think about that for a moment.

“When did this Mr. George Dent arrive to the area?” he asked eventually.

“Only last year”, the policeman said. “Of course Lord Harry knew about him for ages, but he was living abroad until then. No idea where, I'm afraid.”

“I think that I can work that one out”, Sherlock smiled. “Was Madam Warrier local, or did she come to the area as well?”

“She lived in Highams Park, a mile or so south of the town”, he said. “She was mostly off campaigning for this, that and the other, but for the last year she was annoying everyone over 'saving Woodman's Lea', claiming that she would 'do a Queen Victoria and stop the expansion of the evil railway companies'. It's funny; people normally support campaigners like her, but she just got on the wring side of almost everyone, especially with this Woodman's Lea business.”

“I myself am not overly enamoured of the Great Eastern Railway Company”, Sherlock admitted, “having had to work a case involving a locomotive of theirs some years back. Although I have to say, having encountered Madam Warrier, my opinion of them has risen somewhat. The newspaper article said that she had been shot?”

“Yes, sir.”

I was sure that his answer was given straight and without any hesitation, but Sherlock's eyes narrowed. He stared at the young constable, who visibly wilted.

“What is it?” he demanded.

I just stared. _How did he do that?_

“It's just.... well, the doctor said that she was probably stabbed first, and then shot”, the policeman said. “But why would anyone want to go and do that? I mean, she was dead already.”

Sherlock nodded.

“We need to go and see Madam Warrier's house”, he said, “and then I think a call on your Lord Harry. This is a most curious case, all told, but I think that I can see light at the end of the tunnel.”

+~+~+

The harri.... Madam Warrier's house in Highams Park was not what I had been expecting. For someone who spent all her time campaigning for this cause or that cause, this was bordering on the palatial. 

“Who inherits all this?” I wondered. I had considered that question earlier, but now I could see how wealthy the woman had been, it took on a new dimension.

“Various campaigns and charities”, Constable Lake said. “She came from a rich family – her late father had had her and two sisters but no sons, so they got a third of the estate each. Both the sisters married and have young families, and both live in distant parts of the country; Wigtownshire and Merionethshire. Though if she'd been my sister, I would have gone for distance, if not another country! She was estranged from both of them, so she left them nothing. I thought that, doctor, but I doubt the people in charge of Epping Forest or saving the birds did her in.”

“Do we know if anyone came here to see her?” Sherlock asked. 

“She was not popular with anyone”, the constable said. “Most people hid when they saw her coming; I doubt anyone would willingly subject themselves to such an ordeal. Even Bert the postie said he shot the letters through her box of a morning and scarpered, in case she caught him.”

“And Mr. Smith never came here?” Sherlock asked. The policeman looked confused.

“I don't think so, sir. I mean, I never asked him that, but why would he?”

Sherlock nodded, and prowled around the hallway before entering what turned out to be a fair-sized reception room. He seemed particularly fascinated by what I thought was only a medium-quality Turkish rug by the door, but did not say why.

“Did Madam Warrier have any jewellery?” he asked.

“She did not seem the sort”, the constable said. “Her lawyer – Mr. Acosta, a right smarmy git – checked and sealed everything once he was told of her death. He didn't tell anyone he was coming round even though it was still marked at the time as a crime scene, and I nearly arrested him because one of the neighbours saw him and called me in.”

“Can you check her bedroom for me, please?” Sherlock asked him. “I am looking for what is most probably a cheap jewellery box, the sort of gewgaw that has a ballerina dancing and excruciating music when you open it. It may be important in the case.”

I was a little miffed that Sherlock had asked the constable instead of me, but he nodded and left the room. We soon heard his heavy tread on the stairs.

“John!”

What, now?

He rolled his eyes at me, and I saw that he was moving the table and chairs for some reason. I helped, and once they were all shifted he quickly turned over the horrible circular Turkish rug that had been under the table. I gulped. There was a large red stain on the underside.

“I _thought_ that I saw something!” he said triumphantly. “Quick, let us go!”

He pulled the carpet back down, quickly replaced the furniture, and was at the door in under a minute. As he walked out, I could hear the constable crossing the landing to rejoin us. What on earth was going on?”

+~+~+

Sherlock told our police friend that he needed to do some research in the town library, but would be grateful if we could see the nobleman later that afternoon. We had a quick lunch (no pie, unfortunately), and Sherlock spent a long time looking at local newspapers from recent weeks.

“Do you know who killed Madam Warrier?” I asked once he was done. He nodded.

“A strange case”, he said. “Not murder – or at least, not a crime for which any person could ever be prosecuted. Most intriguing.”

“Who did it?” I asked.

“Three people were involved”, he said. “Ah, we are at the station.”

We went inside to find Constable Lake looking decidedly put-upon. We were in one of the larger rooms at the back of the place, and the two gentlemen introduced to us were Lord Harold of Holybourne, who looked mildly perplexed at our presence, and his cousin and heir Mr. George Dent, who looked at us suspiciously.

“Mr. Holmes!” the constable said. “You will not believe what has happened in the past few hours!”

“Well, let us see”, Sherlock said. “Your local Red Indian, Mr. Arthur Smith, has moved on to pastures new, but not before leaving a note that confesses to his murder of Madam Warrier, and describes how he killed her with his throwing-knife before using a gun that he had stolen in order to try to hide the crime. How am I doing so far?”

I wondered if the constable was going to have a seizure. He certainly seemed to be having trouble breathing. It was Lord Holybourne who broke the silence.

“How much do you know?” he asked coolly. Sherlock smiled at him.

“Most, if not all”, he said. “Unpleasant though that woman was, few people actually _deserve_ to be killed.” He paused before adding, “except given the circumstances, she was amongst that small few.”

I stared at him. He sat back and smiled.

“This has been a very curious case”, he said. “I found the answer, or at least a key part to it, in the papers that I have been reading all afternoon. The ones from up to a year ago, when this to-do over Woodman's Lea began, were either sympathetic or ambivalent towards Madam Warrier. But when she crossed swords with the 'local Red Indian' – and there are three words I did not think ever to pass my lips – the papers turned against her. Indeed, in the run-up to her death they had become positively hostile, investigating every aspect of her past life for whatever misdeeds that they could find.”

“Strange though it sounds to say such a thing, people like Madam Warrier are the children of this world. They crave attention, they crave praise, and they desire above all else to be liked. It is the Good Lord's oft-cited 'sense of ill-humour' that such a thing is always unattainable, as their true personality sooner rather than later repels those around them. Madam Warrier found that, because she had crossed swords with the wrong opponent – and I am sure that she believed public opinion would be on her side in this contention – she lost what little popularity she had gained thus far. She blamed Mr. Smith – so she decided to kill him. A child's solution; remove the annoyance, regardless of trifling things such as morality and the law.”

I swallowed. He sounded so calm, taking about a planned murder.

“As things turned out however, she had fatally underestimated her opponent. She invited him to her house on some pretext, where she would do the evil deed.”

“How can you know that?” I asked.

“The house has been well tidied after the killing”, he said, “which detail I shall come to later, but on the table I found the unmistakable scratches that can only be caused when a revolver or pistol is placed there for some little time. She sat there waiting for her victim to come through the door, when she would kill him. There were also some red hairs on the curtain at the height of someone sat on a chair next to it, although the chair was subsequently moved.”

“She forgets, however, that she is dealing with someone as physically adept as Mr. Smith. He suspects her intentions and, I believe, reconnoitres the house beforehand. He is able to enter the room, catch her off-guard and kill her with his throwing-knife before she has time to react. He then shoots her, most likely through some sort of wrap to hide the noise. There is a little blood loss, and the men in charge of the cover-up do not notice that it has seeped through to the underside of the table rug. Nor do they notice what are undeniably skid marks under the rug by the entrance, where someone has made a sudden shift of position before throwing a knife.”

“You said they”, I asked. “They who?”

Sherlock looked around at the other three men in the room, all of whom looked away.

“To understand this crime, we need to go back in time”, he said. “Much as I admire the English nobility as a rule, I have to say that you, Lord Holybourne, lied when you told everyone that you were allowing a Red Indian onto your land. For one thing, Indian wigwams do not have the sort of markings that I noted the one by Woodman's Lea possesses in the newspaper photographs. Mr. Arthur Smith was not the son of a squaw who decided to bring him here, then conveniently died. The papers from that time state that you, my lord, were in the United States for many years before Mr. Cody graced these shores with his fine show. Many as in over twenty-five.”

He turned to Mr. Dent.

“Are you his natural son?” he asked. 

“What?” I exclaimed.

“Your colleague is as sharp as your books portray him, doctor”, Mr. Dent said ruefully. “No, sir. I am his nephew, the son of His Lordship's elder brother Horace, who had just become lord of the manor at that time. He had an affair with my mother and promptly abandoned her. My uncle here stood by her, and when my father died some years later, my uncle timed his return to that of the show.”

“But why did you stay a Red Indian over here?” I asked, now totally bemused. He shrugged.

“I was going to just become an English gentleman, sir”, he said. “But as we were travelling to the coast, we stopped in a city called St. Louis, midway across the United States. There, I chanced to meet a lady who had come to the town for some reason, though she would not say what. But she did tell me that it was vitally important that I 'play the Indian brave' in England, until a time when I would realize it was right to stop. She was all too correct.”

“What was her name?” I asked.

“Mrs. Missouri Moseley.”

I gulped.

“It was a harmless fiction at first”, Sherlock said. “When the time was right, the Indian brave would disappear, and the heir and cousin would step forward. Except that the advent of the terrible Madam Warrier precipitated that moment. When her plans for your death ended in her own, your uncle rallied round by helping stage your disappearance. And he was not the only one. _Was he, constable?”_

Constable Lake had turned bright red. He stared hard at the floor.

“Omitting a detail like two causes of death was suspicious enough”, Sherlock said, “but the distance from Miss Warrier's home in Highams Park to where the body was found is several miles. I doubt that Lord Holybourne would have been up to helping his son dispose of a body over such a distance. You, having been apprised of the crime, not only assisted, but came up with the excellent idea of placing the body on the border between two constabularies, knowing as you do that there would be the inevitable 'turf war'.”

The constable slowly nodded.

“What do you intend to do?” Lord Holybourne asked anxiously.

“I do not see that there is anything that I _can_ do”, Sherlock said, sounding vexed. “This woman very clearly planned to murder your nephew, and met a deserved end when her plans backfired. There is no doubt that if this matter ever came to court, a jury would rightly conclude that he acted in self-defence. I will admit that the cover-up of the crime disturbs me, but given the way that the press responds in such cases, I can see the necessity for it. However.....”

He wagged a finger at all three men.

“However, I have had a few cases like this before” he said, “where a crime has been committed and a conviction would, for various reasons, have been impossible to obtain. And in each case, I have kept a weather eye on those involved. If any one of you ever ventures any further down the criminal path, then I may re-visit this case. In the meantime, I shall wish you all a good day.”

+~+~+

“Why are you smiling?”

Sherlock looked at me curiously. We had just boarded the train back to Liverpool Street, and would soon be safely ensconced within the thick walls of dear old 221B. 

“Just imagining you as a Red Indian brave”, I said. “The war-paint, the loin-cloth, the weapon......”

He was suddenly very close to me.

“Ah yes”, he said. “The savage warrior ready to have his way with the all-too-willing white settler. Using his.... weapon.”

I gulped.

“You... I.....”, I spluttered.

“Tonight!” he said darkly.

Role-play was going to be the end of me, one of these days! And a blue-eyed someone would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do to the poor funeral directors!

Twenty-two months to go.

+~+~+

Next, Sherlock has to solve a mystery aboard the “U.S.S. Enterprise”. And I am briefly acquainted with several meals.


End file.
